Here’s a Treat or Two

“Nothing but sincerity as far as the eye can see.”

I am against certain things. Pretend you’re shocked. Here is a list of unacceptable behaviors to which you may add, take away, or totally ignore:

--Audible digestion – in all its forms.

--Principals who won’t let teachers take better job offers from competing schools during the school year.

--Hating on Lucy. Come on, she rises at four a.m. to get her blockhead brother from the pumpkin patch. Who’s got a bigger heart than Lucy? Nobody. That’s who.

--Helping when you’re not.

--Supreme Court nominees who believe 1) my uterus belongs to my husband; 2) the FMLA is overreaching; but 3) strip-searching a ten year old is not.

--Anyone who doesn’t see perfection in precious children when they act silly. Especially my two little superheroes.

--Scheduling a NYC trip the same weekend as the Florida Democratic Convention. That sh*t’s gotta stop.

--Trick-or-treaters sporting facial hair.

--Nose-blowing at the dinner table.

--Permanently giving up every guest bedroom in the house to overbearing relatives who have no pension plans. I’m beginning to think people who want to live alone their entire lives are on to something.

--Assuming the one with a demanding wife and two active children should drop everything for people who could godd*mn well do it themselves.

There. That ought to get me kicked out of the next family gathering. Fingers crossed, anyway.

Flight of the RefuJews

“What you mean he don’t eat no meat? Oh, that’s okay. I make lamb.”

For those just joining the program, my husband and I are playing host to a few of Hurricane Wilma’s refugees from South Florida. His aunt and uncle had enough of the boys’ endless questions. (Oldest son: “Why do you walk so slow?” Youngest son: “Does ‘old’ mean you’re going to die soon?”) They took a cross-country flight to California this morning. That leaves just my mother-in-law, my attitude, and my hair trying to share one house.

Actually, I jest. I’m a jester. Nothing but mad love ‘round here.

I feel so comfortable with Jews that converting several years back was simply a foregone conclusion. They’re like my Irish relatives – minus the drunk-before-noon habit. Both ethnic groups are obsessed with food, talk/breathe/chew loud enough to hear from Guam, and participate in discussions only to bring every topic back to themselves. No matter the subject.

“My ass is killing me.”

“Oh, don’t get me started, darling. Once, my sphincter was in such turmoil…”

Good times. But seriously, I’ve learned a lot from having elderly Heebs in the hizouse.

--First of all – once a shiksa, always a shiksa. (“Pronounce Simchat with more of a choking sound, bubella. It hurts my head the way you say it.”)

--New Orleans doesn’t know from disaster. Dead bodies floating in water and the displacement of thousands is nothing! (“Tamarac is like a war zone! Trees are down, Mah Jong tournaments got canceled. Don’t tell me about suffering.”)

--Speaking of South Florida, according to real authorities – Condo Commandants calling my house every ten minutes – here’s the true story: “The governor hates Broward County because we’re Jews and Democrats. Hispanics in Miami? They get the lights!”

--File under Complete Waste of Time – looking for nutritional value in daily dinner of blintzes, sour cream and jelly. Ever suggest broccoli to a bunch of Yiddish-speaking crazy people? It’s a wonder I’m still alive.

--Note to self: Screaming inside head causes laryngitis just like screaming out loud. Who knew? Now I cannot speak and everyone is pretending to be quite disappointed. This morning, one son suggested throat clearing as my “squeaks” bothered his ears. Another son points the remote control at me to “raise the volume”, but nothing works. Husband thanked God several times.

Authorities say power might be out until the end of November. Is it a sin to pray for a coma?

Criminalizing Our Politics

Can you think of a more appropriate title for the antics of certain ethically-challenged Republicans?

Jeffrey Bell and William Kristol tried to suggest that Delay, Libby, and the rest are martyrs for the right. Spare me.

Despite hopes of conservative journalists, current leaders are not under criminal investigation for their role in pushing a conservative agenda. These men, among others, are charged with breaking serious laws that have harmed people. This is their true common denominator and to suggest otherwise is an attempt at smoke and mirrors.

Comparing these and other scandals such as Iran-Contra and Watergate with the Monica Lewinsky charade is also laughable. Republicans dragged Clinton’s personal problems before a grand jury and now believe liberals are seeking revenge. Have they learned nothing? Still equating murder and theft with adultery, but the rest of us know the truth: all sins are not created equal.

Don’t let them fool you. We deserve to know if these leaders have something else in common – an inability to be effective within the law.

Wakey, Wakey

Normally only a screaming child can get me up at the crack of dawn. Oh, and some morning love.

Today I'm up for an entirely different reason. My friend Dorothy invited me to a *special sale* at Macy*s. You know how some women are Born to Shop? I'm not one of them. So what's the motivating factor for dragging my ass to a mall at an ungodly hour when I'd rather sleep and nurse a sore throat?

- Rock bottom prices...

No.

- Quality time with a girlfriend...

That happens when I drag her ass to a political rally.

- A house full of relatives and two screaming children looking for attention every five minutes...

Bingo.

I'm going to pop some Airborne and take off. How many other moms are out there, speeding away from the suburbs and blasting Kanye West - hazy, but happy to be free? If only for a few hours.

Let's Take This Outside

My entire family comes from Ireland, which makes me an authority on the art of arguing. I’ve never understood some people’s aversion to it. While many argue to win, wise men and women argue to learn.

What can be learned from a prolonged argument in the form of a race between Senator Rod Smith and US Representative Jim Davis for the Democratic nomination for governor? Heads are spinning over endorsements – most recently Bob Butterworth signed on to work for Smith while Bob Graham backed Davis a while ago. Each side desperately needs money, so doesn’t a divided party lead to divided resources? In the end, when we finally have a nominee, will he be so far behind in finances that the race is over before it begins?

Or will a hotly contested race guarantee more attention and, as a result, better voter turnout?

Either way, we'll learn something. Won't we?

Where Should I Start?

I opened up my refrigerator this morning and yelled to my husband,

"King! Where are my organic refreshments? All I see are insulin and dead animals."

Which can only mean one thing: my inlaws are in town. Mother-in-law, aunt-in-law, and uncle-in-law. Husband drove over to Tamarac, picked them up, and drove them over here because 1) he's a hero; 2)aforementioned insulin don't work too well melted; and 3) we want to be remembered come Will Time.

Here's an email my brother sent me:

Subject: Refugees in Wesley Chapel

I heard you got some company the next month. Takin' in refugees is a nice hero type move.

You gonna cook for them?

This situation would make great reality tv.

I'm checkin' your blog hourly now.

This ought to be good.

Stay tuned...

Still Crazy After All These Years

What were you doing on October 25, 1988? Ahh, this hippie chick remembers it well.

After morning classes, I campaigned for a young lawyer running for State House of Representatives. A welcome break from crashing fraternity parties where I'd find an empty office and type anti-apartheid editorials. I had just met the aforementioned lawyer who convinced me community issues were just as important and politics in this town shouldn’t be a members-only event. I signed on immediately with frat boy recruits. We ran the phone banks and enjoyed our empowerment.

Later that night, I had a date with Future Husband. Our first date, actually. Halloween 4 and ice cream afterward. I played a hard-to-get routine that lasted five years. Maybe longer. I looked away rather than laugh, blew off earth-shattering kisses and pretended his smile wasn’t the best I’d ever seen. To his credit, he didn’t run away.

Future Husband: You should be an actress.

Katie: I am an actress; I just don’t have an audience.

FT: You have one now.

He wasn’t kidding. And not a bad line for a cocky, twenty year-old who had just met his match.

Fast forward to tonight. I am home writing anti-establishment editorials and preparing to help that same lawyer campaign for governor. Husband is listening to my rough drafts on a cell phone while driving relatives away from downed power lines and a hurricane-ravaged town. No champagne or remembering the good old days for us. Not tonight anyway.

Work to be done and all.

Nonsense

***UPDATE***
The Land O' Lakes Rec Center is closed today due to Hurricane Wilma; therefore, the volunteers for Jim Davis meeting has been rescheduled and more information will follow.

“There’s nothing to do!”

Why must children be entertained 24/7? If my two angels aren’t occupied or able to hit a ball in the backyard all day, they will most likely wreck the house and drive me out of my g*ddamn mind.

Hurricane Wilma is probably the last storm of the season. I shouldn’t complain; we got off easy this year. As Wilma strolls through South Florida, local districts canceled school tomorrow. Most teachers and students are thrilled to enjoy a long weekend.

Parents are pissed.

Forced inside with kids who would rather be outside is bad enough. Spending the day screaming, “Pipe down!”, “Keep your hands to yourself!” and “Walking feet!” is no one’s idea of fun. Sure, I could park my kids in front of the boob tube all day and get some writing done, but I’d like to raise children who aren’t brain dead. Even if it kills me.

An Offer You Can’t Refuse

What happens when nothing happens?

I’ve been up late every night trying to break the block. Three writing assignments and I get sidelined watching Beck videos and looking for tornados.

If anyone wants to critique a couple of short stories, once I finish them, please let me know and I’ll owe you a beer. My musings aren’t the best, but they’re not the worst and if you fancy yourself well-read, then give mine a go.

Just email with the subject: I want to be listed on the “acknowledgments page”.

Get Up, Stand Up

There’s a spaghetti dinner scheduled November 10th for supporters of Jim Davis in West Tampa. Many have the following day off to sleep in. It’s only $5.00 to meet the man who will improve life for everyone, not just the privileged few, and slurp some pasta. Added bonus? Wishing me a happy birthday.

More Evidence

My sister, Michele, is a lady.

She has always been a lady. Michele lectures me on my indiscriminate use of profanity and potty humor. She is not amused, most of the time, and wishes I would conduct myself in a manner more befitting a wife and mother.

Fat f*cking chance.

Therefore, imagine my surprise upon opening her latest care package to my children. At first, all was right with the world. Chocolate? Check. Bubbles in little containers resembling cute and adorable jack o’ lanterns? Check. Noise Putty? Check.

Wait a minute. Noise Putty? Upon further examination, noise putty turned out to be like silly putty except it makes noises. What kind of noises? I’ll give you a hint. The container is shaped like a toilet.

I played the role of slightly-disgusted mother while trying not to laugh at what my oldest calls “the tooter”. Gotta love fart jokes.

Best part of all? Calling my mother and telling her the good news: Her perfect daughter joined the dark side. (Noreen’s disappointed reaction made my day: “I expect this from you. But Michele?”) Pretty soon Michi will be downing tequila, flirting shamelessly, and showing strangers her belly button.

Welcome to the dollhouse.

And I Feel Fine

For the first time EVER, I agree with evangelicals who live in garages with tinfoil on their heads. End days are near, folks. Forget hurricanes, earthquakes, and bird flu - here’s the real proof:

- Rush Limbaugh making sense.

- White Sox in the World Series.

- Neocons touting the conservation line.

- Lifelong best friend is becoming more like me. BACKGROUND: For twenty-three years, Becky and I have been polar opposites – she’s blonde and perky; I’m…not. Yet as we get older, something strange is happening. First she grows intolerant of stupidity and is heard muttering "the masses are asses". Then she converts to Judaism. Before long, she marries someone smart and funny. Last week, she became a brunette. (Cue up the Psycho score.)

Be afraid. Be very afraid.

- Last, but not least, I had a dream last night I was intimate with Usher.

‘Nuff said.

Conversations Between A Teacher and Her Boss

So what Jefferson was saying was "Hey! You know, we left this England place because it was bogus. So if we don't get some cool rules ourselves, pronto, we'll just be bogus too."

Last month:

HEAD HONCHO: I’m going to transfer you to a better teaching position because you rock. Seriously. Should be any day now. Get ready.

OVERQUALIFIED TEACHER: Sweet.

Last week:

HEAD HONCHO: That position is open, but there’s a lot to consider. I got an intern who rocks as well.

OVERQUALIFIED TEACHER: An intern? As in “college student”? Does this intern have big breasts and a winning smile?

HH: Why yes he does, but that’s beside the point. I know you’ve been a successful business woman/political consultant and gave it up to teach tomorrow’s leaders not Wal-Mart greeters, but this intern can coach football. I’m looking for Billy Bob Thorton, not Goldie Hawn. Know what I’m saying?

OT: But this is a Humanities class and I taught Humanities at my last school.

HH: I know, I know. You mentioned that already. Ever taught American Government?

OT: A few years ago.

HH: Sh*t.

OT: And if you’ll look at my resume, you’ll see that I have experience in one of the top lobbying firms in Massachusetts.

HH: Yeah, I’m not a big fan of the Kennedys.

OT: Okay…

HH: What about Florida politics? Connected to anything around here?

OT: I paid my way through college working for two local congressmen.

HH: I guess I’m not being clear. Tell me about the nickel defense.

OT: Excuse me?

HH: Do you know how to get good penetration up front?

OT: Well, this conversation has taken a turn. Our future governor wants me on his team and you’re conflicted because I can't coach football?

HH: Discuss negatives involved in a safety blitz or this conversation is over.

Today

Anyone hiring?

1000 Words

My new best friend over at Macdonald’s Animal Farm sent this to me.




I don't know about you, but I'm scared to open attachments from people I've known twenty years. Not to mention recently made acquaintances. Combine that with heightened paranoia evolving after tons of hate mail from strangers who believe "God will get all liberals eventually" and you can understand my hesitation in opening up this drawing that's supposed to make me smile.

I'm so relieved not to be staring at a drawing of my naked body with a knife in my head that I forgive my hair taking up half the page.

Think Global, Act Local

Governor Bush now supports off-shore oil drilling. While I’d love to use this issue against him if he tries to follow big brother's footsteps in 2008, Floridians should fight against this today. Swimming amidst hairy, three-hundred pound tourists is frightening enough – who wants to clean oil residue out of the kid's hair afterward?

Jeb also thinks the permit process for nuclear power plants should be a whole lot easier.

“I do believe we need to look at our permitting process for nuclear power. I think it is the safest, cheapest form of energy and provides the most stability that exists with current technologies.”

I doubt Jeb would want the plant in his backyard. Progress Energy may have a new facility in Citrus County by the year 2015, if not sooner. (Fingers crossed!) That’s a mere eighty miles from Tampa, folks. God bless the rural voter; he's about to get rewarded for supporting the Republican party.

Just when I'm about ready to hightail it out of here, a rumor began circulating that strange creatures have been spotted in Pasco County. No, I'm not talking about Rednecks Who've Read Tolstoy - although they're getting an invite to my next barbeque.

I'm talking about Democrats.

If you're a progressive thinker and living in my neck of the woods, take heart. You are not alone. Come out and introduce yourself next Monday, October 24th from 7-8pm at the Land O' Lakes Recreation Center and rally behind Jim Davis. We need all the help we can get.

Let's do something, peeps. Or bundle up now. Nuclear winters are supposed to be frigid.

West Coast Rules, East Coast Drools

Michael and Chelsie are in town for the weekend. My brother is officially “from LA” and wants to hang with someone other than children, parents and grandparents that make up my current social circle.

“I’m in town,” he says with the laid-back drawl of someone who just got off the Red Eye with little or no sleep. “Put a crew together.”

I don’t know what my brother is talking about most of the time. There is an awful lot going on that Michael “can’t support” even though he’s “in it to win it”. Something is either “guilty” or “a heavy scene”. “Don’t kid yourself” because he’s “dialed in”, I’m just afraid to suggest anything for fear of being ridiculed as a “right coast thinker”.

We’re going to hit The Blue Shark and James Joyce and hope for the best. I’m sure our initial conversation will go something like this:

“We’re taking the minivan? Very guilty.”

“Don’t make fun of me, Michael. It has satellite radio. That’s gotta count for something.”

“Not if you keep it on Lite Hitz all f*cking night. Light it up, sister!”

Wish me luck, folks.

Cathy's Best Friend

Cathy and I met in 1982 as obnoxious eighth graders. Our attitudes grew along with our hair and we entered high school ready to take on the world.



By the time we left, Cathy and I, along with most other students, were forever changed.

The usual experiences were only part of it. We liked boys who didn’t like us back, changed our hair color, learned to drive, tried tequila, and went from Madonna to Motley Crue in the blink of an eye. Our home lives were pretty typical in that we both had divorced parents and felt horribly misunderstood. Cathy had to work extra hard to please her mom and sometimes buckled under the pressure.

Stephanie made life easier for Cathy. They were best friends. Stephanie’s outlook and charm made gaps between disaffected youth and disapproving parents disappear. Cathy’s mom loved Stephanie and Cathy cherished her above all other friends. They did everything together.

Senior year, Stephanie drove Cathy home one day after school. She couldn’t stay, had to request more hours at work before chorus practice.

Stephanie never made it to any after-school activity. She disappeared somewhere between her car and the drugstore where she worked.

Days followed where everyone felt confused and scared. Where did she go? Stephanie wasn’t the running-away type. We attended vigils and Cathy spent weeks passing out fliers and hoping for the best. Tragically, Stephanie’s body was found a month later.

Years passed before police announced that her killer had been found. I won’t name the man who killed Stephanie. He thrives off attention and I won’t add to it. Stephanie wasn’t his only victim. This week he was sentenced to life in prison for killing Natalie Holley and a few years ago he was sentenced to death for killing Teri Lynn Matthews. In the past, his guilty verdicts have been overturned. Let’s hope these stick.

This January, he will stand trial for Stephanie’s murder for the third time. I suspect he will be found guilty again. I wonder if Cathy will have to take the stand once more and describe that sad time in her life for another courtroom of strangers. We went from carefree teenagers one day to scared young girls the next who spent hours talking about how to react if someone tried to steal us away from the people we loved.

At his sentencing Tuesday, Natalie Holley’s sister spoke for all those affected by violence. But this pathetic killer is not the reason we were forever changed. Our reaction to loss was because of a red-haired girl, her infectious laugh, and the way she took care of her friends. Especially Cathy.

Like most girls from our high school class, Cathy and I grew into women



– a blessing stolen from Stephanie, Natalie, and Teri. We know we’re the lucky ones. You can see that we know it, too. Just look behind our smiles.

Starvin' Like Marvin

Good news: I don't have leukemia or lupus. Bad news: now everyone will stop giving me what I want because comments like, " I might not be here next year" won't work.

Oh well. Listen closely to sighs of relief from friends, family, and a few folks who are avoiding me for fear I'll request an embarrassing last wish. (Now you can start emailing me and returning my calls again.)

Yes, I'll live to abuse another day, I suppose. Regular ITP never sounded so good. Please pass the Everything Bagels. I'm hungry.

Chosen Bound

My mother always taught her Catholic children that Judaism was the foundation of our faith.
Then it officially became my faith in 1995.

For the most part, everyone handled my conversion well. Family members love me. I’m a delight. They love the men in my life – hardly ever referring to them as “Jew boys”.

In other words, my decision never turned us into a Jerry Springer episode. I’m sure older relatives never, in their wildest dreams, thought they’d be related to Jews and even they’re handling it well.

There are some repercussions. For example, I can’t be godmother to any future nieces or nephews. It’s not fair, but you know what they say: Can’t fight Vatican Hall. I have one godson and he will have to do.

Danny is the youngest first-cousin and born about fourteen years before I joined the tribe. I suppose his mother, my mother's sister, had her reasons for picking a mouthy ten year old for such an important gig. She swears Danny likes telling people his godmother’s Jewish. I’ve heard the kid say exactly five words his whole life: “God bless the White Sox." I can't imagine him saying much more. But since he’s my only shot at being a godmother, quiet or not, I guess I’ll keep him.

At any rate, family members get our holidays confused. Last Tuesday, my brother called.

“Where’s my apology?”

“What did I do now?” I asked.

“Twelve months of sh*t,” he said, chewing some kind of dead animal. “So beg my forgiveness. Let’s hear it.”

“Wrong holiday. Yom Kippur is next week, dork.”

Ten minutes later my dad showed up for dinner and asked where to sit when giving his acceptance speech.

“Accepting what?” I asked.

“Your heartfelt apology for all the bullsh*t this year.”

They look forward to my Sorry Speech the way kids look forward to Santa Claus. My sister refers to our Day of Atonement as her Day of Resentment and always lists my screw-ups to review before begrudgingly approving a do-over.

Every year on Yom Kippur, Jews ask God for forgiveness. However, we need to forgive each other first. Therefore at dinner tonight, I said I’m sorry to the people I love. For those who are far away, I call. Then I accept their apologies and we put it all behind us. Except they never apologize because they're not Jewish.

See how this works? Easy fasting, peeps.

This Moment Has Been Brought To You By Hallmark Cards and Kleenex

"Are you watching Beaches? Big mistake."

There is a little battle being waged inside my body. ANAs fighting platelets in much the same way Republicans attack civil liberties - without realizing we’re on the same side. In the midst of literal bloodshed, I’ve come to realize the sheer importance of family and friends.

If you’re like my sister, you’re thinking, “Look at this morose motherf*cker here.” (We likes the Kevin Smith movies.)

Loved ones have always weighed more than culture and diversity, which is why my husband and I are in Tampa rather than Boston. Well, they mean even more now. It’s like I’m backed by a really great team which makes getting probed and waiting for results a whole lot easier.

Stoli helps, too. But that’s another posting.

(Cue up the violins.)

I’d like to thank everyone who has emailed, commented, called, and otherwise communicated support. I’ve thanked you personally and feel fortunate to have wonderful people on my side. Like my friend Jenn says, "It's done. Let's not speak of it again."

Some are afraid/busy/trapped under large rocks and can’t communicate until rescued, but are sending mad positive thoughts. They’re pretty much dead to me. Thoughts are nice, but it’s the gift that counts and in this case, the gift is knowing you’re with me.

Keep sending those positive thoughts anyway. What the hell, right?

To those who are hoping for one less liberal in the world, keep dreaming. This left-leaning scorcher isn’t going anywhere anytime soon.

Inspiration for how to handle health care issues is closer than I thought. Jamie, first-cousin extraordinaire, was recently diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis. The same cousin who used to play Dyna Girl to my Electra Woman, who traveled all over the world and is now kicking ass and taking names designing clothes in New York, is also facing the biggest challenge of her life.

Sorta makes ITP or Lupus or whatever I’ve got look like a common cold.

Jamie has responded with the kind of determination and, most importantly, optimism that would make our Nana proud.

If you can spare a few bucks, reward this woman for not sitting home and wallowing in self-pity. She’s riding a bike around New York next weekend for a cure to this disease that has come into her life and the lives of those who love her. We need your help so give whatever you can.

I do believe, ultimately, the only way we’re going to make it is together. As a team. So thanks for making me feel like I have a winning one.

Scene of the Crime

Most disasters start out as good ideas.

“Let’s kick Saddam’s ass!”
“Brownie would do a hell of a job.”
“Since our anniversary falls on a Friday, let’s celebrate with the kids!”

Ten years ago, our wedding and reception took place at Rusty Pelican. We thought it might be fun to go back for dinner with our children. Show them where Mommy and Daddy got married, where most of Mommy’s bridesmaids stopped talking to her, and where Uncle Morris threw up in the punch bowl. Ahh, memories.

More than a few people thought we were nuts, yet the night was magnificent.

Rusty Pelican is still top notch, Chef even whipped up original, not-on-the-menu dishes for our vegetarian palates. Yummy all the way around. We were even serenaded by a neighboring table that couldn’t hide their shock and admiration over two well-behaved and adorable children.

Kids did us proud. The only rough moment was when our server did the whole “bananas foster tableside on the house in honor of our anniversary” gig. My kindergartners are in the midst of fire safety exercises at school. When flames shot to the ceiling, my youngest hit the deck while my oldest yelled, “Stop! Drop! And Roll!”

I almost dropped my wine. Other than that, damn near perfect.

There Goes The Neighborhood

I am a new contributor to most-popular/too-cool Sticks of Fire. Tommy likes me; he really likes me. He’s got quite a following – I hope I’m up fer the challenge.

I’m going to be ladylike. I promise. No cursing or fighting with the other kids. Still. I can’t help but wonder how long until I get kicked out for attracting secret service attention. I don’t believe Tommy wants his own FBI file. And does he really want my pinko-commie fans? Although really, you never can have too many pinko-commie fans. Right? Of course, right.

Here’s to the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

My Miracle Drug

“With her attitude and aversion to cooking, I give them six months.”

I have girlfriends who look through old photos and wonder about their first love. Voices grow soft reminiscing about moonlit walks, romantic poems, and naked promises made while Bon Jovi played in the background. They wonder about him and if he ever made it to graduate school. How is he doing? Is he happy? Does he still have all his hair?

Then they Google the unemployed Enron executive and years of fantasies go down the drain.

I don’t wonder any of these things. If I have a question for my first love, I look across the dinner table and ask him.

Anyone who has ever met my husband probably wonders how I got so lucky. He’s not only the smartest man in any room; he’s wise enough to keep it to himself sometimes. My man is kind, considerate, and funny to a fault. His eyes belong to someone who has never hurt another soul – and never would. He’s also a terrific father.

I said these words during my wedding on October 7, 1995. I still mean every word.

At sixteen or seventeen, my friends and I used to sit around and talk about the men we hoped to meet, fall in love with, and marry. Every time I finished describing my perfect man, my friends would laugh, shake their heads, and say,

“Quit dreaming. A man like that no longer exists.”

I wouldn’t listen. And then, just a few short years later, my sister introduced me to you. There, in flesh and blood, was the man of my dreams.

What did I wish for and end up getting? The words to describe you, and all that you are, aren’t good enough. There isn’t a word yet invented that can accurately convey the feelings that are precious to me and hold a sacred place in my heart. To use words or phrases available would belittle what I feel. Not to mention the fact that I’d be here for days naming them all.

After seven years, you still awaken something new inside me every day. It’s beautiful that you and I feel it, talk about it, and bask in it constantly. What makes it a complete miracle is that our love touches those who are closest to us as well.

I read something once by Emily Bronte and it’s perfect: “…you are more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made of, yours and mine are the same….If all else perished and you remained, I should still continue to be. If all else remained and you were annihilated, the universe would turn to a might stranger…you are always in my mind; not just as a pleasure to myself, but as my own being.”

Thank you for bringing so much happiness and love into my life. If I can give you a quarter of the joy you’ve given me – that would be a grand accomplishment. I promise to spend every day trying.

I look forward to giving you all that I am until I am no more.

Ups, downs, college, passing fads, crazy crushes and crying kids have done nothing to lessen my feelings for this hunk of a man I am married to. From Tampa to Boston and back again. We made it through bad hair years, stretch marks, and bridges to Nantucket.

Here’s to me and you. Happy Anniversary.

"This place gives me an ass ache."

“My bone marrow biopsy is over and I’m going back to work,” I said.

“You’re nuts,” Husband said. “Did it hurt?”

“I've had bikini waxes that hurt more.”

The peeps at St. Joseph’s Hospital were wonderful. I filled out another survey and, again, asked for one improvement: open bar. (My stock answer.) So, if you pay a visit to St. Joe’s in the near future and enjoy a cold beverage while undergoing chemo, you know who to thank.

Days of Awe Indeed

The year 5766 is off to an interesting start.

Tom Delay got indicted again. It seems money laundering may have been in his bag of tricks in addition to breaking campaign finance laws. Color me impressed: gotta hand it to any man capable of multi-tasking. What does this say about Texas? Old CW: corrupt cowboys need to lay off ribs and redistricting. New CW: don’t mess with Texas justice!

Speaking of Texas, check out Harriet Miers’ new “blog”.

The jury’s still out on her. George doesn’t have the best track record picking inexperienced friends for high places. (FEMA, anyone?) Harriet has no judicial track-record and is up for the highest court in the land. What has our commander-in-chief done so far to earn our collective trust in his judgment? Besides expand the federal government, export thousands of jobs overseas, turn back the clock on environmental regulations and enjoy more vacation days than any president since Reagan? Do we need more proof that his posturing at the altar of conservatism and Christianity was really just a rouse to get into the White House? He doesn’t believe a word of either doctrine.

He doesn’t believe in progressive causes either. Just the Gospel According to Big Business.

Is Miers a token to preserve the power of the President in his unending war on terror and civil liberties? If she isn’t willing to outline her views on key issues affecting the lives of my children and grandchildren, I hope more Senators rise to the occasion and give her a firm thumbs-down.

Come to think of it, I’d like a firm thumbs-down from Senator Obama, if you know what I mean. (winkwinknudgenudge) Sorry. Where was I?

Even conservatives are nervous at the thought of blindly following George on this one. That should give the rest of us reason to worry.

Hurts so Good

I have a bone marrow biopsy this week. I also have several other tests involving body fluids plus yankings on this-or-that to check for “the lupus”.

Rosh Hashanah is Tuesday. Happy New Year, my ass.

I could do without cringes and squirms from people who hear about my upcoming adventures. Yes, I’ll be a pin cushion by Thursday. Yes, some needles are longer than John Holmes’ ying-yang. I don’t mean to go Buddhist on all two of you, but pain isn’t necessarily bad. It can be transcendental. Or, at the very least, a reason to hit happy hour on Friday.

Obviously, not all pain is positive. The kind that shoots from head to chest listening to Bill Bennett’s ideas about abortion is unbearable; the time between heart attack and death has got to be scary. Unless the heart attack involves Bill Bennett and I'm watching with a bucket of popcorn in my hands. That could be cool.

What about normal aches that come with everyday life?

As a woman, I’m offended when females complain about cramps. Some students use menstruation as reason to sleep during medieval history and I refuse to accept it.

“You’re body is working properly,” I snap. “Your egg and uterus lining is breaking down and you feel it moving through your body. Exercise! Eat right! Lay off weed!”

It takes a special kind of teacher to make that speech work.

I don’t bother with grown women; they’re a lost cause. I just tell them to take Midol and roll with it. Whiny b*tches bringing me down, man. And it gets worse. I had a friend once who wouldn’t get pregnant because she was afraid of childbirth. I told her not to take Lifetime movies seriously, but she never listened.

Weak men are no better. You know the type. They dare to cry about a hand up the arse during colon checks to someone who has had enough wide-open speculums inside her to last a lifetime. Some won’t even see their dentist for fear of a pinch or slight scrape.

It takes a nation of cowards to hold us back.

I’ve given birth to twins, donated endless pints of blood, endured tattoo sessions and meditated my way through several “surgical procedures”.

(Did I mention S&M? Loads of fun.)

And all without a whimper. I bet I can do this, too. Watch me.

Tampa’s Not So Bad After All

Meeting friends from the Internet can be frightening. You’ve heard the horror stories. BigDonJuan@aol.com is really five feet with acne problems, missing body parts or brain cells…you end up in a stalking situation…embarrassing story hits the papers – bad news all the way around. Makes me want to stay cocooned in the home office and never venture outside.

Well, last night I met Tommy and Brett (while watching Tampa’s best JGLB) and they were as wonderful in person as they are in the blogosphere. Anyone who can charm me into giving up pizza is a keeper. (I still owe Brett a beer.) They’re talented, funny, flattering…makes me want to go back for moremoremore. Maybe I’ll end up stalking them.

Could be fun...

Eyes on the Prize

I don’t give advice.

Okay, that’s not true. I’m solution-based and crazy with opinions. However, offering solutions to chronic complainers is not the same as waxing philosophic in a slightly judgmental fashion, listing all the ways you’d do it better if you were in their shoes. Besides, I almost always pepper my suggestions with,

“Of course, I could be wrong.”

I definitely don’t give advice to couples. Why do some love affairs bear fruit while others die on the vine? After years of watching friends and family members, I can never tell who will make it. Perhaps I should know a thing or two about the process, but I don’t. Why does my man still smile when I ramble? Why do I still melt when he smiles?

No clue.

I do know one thing, though: date nights help. (So does oral…but I digress.) To couples near and far, listen up. Come hell or high water, do something together WITHOUT THE KIDS (every week) and enjoy yourselves. I’m not saying take out a small loan for the dinner-and-movie gig. It doesn’t need to be expensive. Take a walk down Bayshore. Get drunk at The Hub. Do something. Even if you can’t get a babysitter, put the little rug rats in their car seats after sleepy time and just drive. Talk.

What about car sex? Cheap and fun!

Speaking of which, my husband and I are off for our weekly together time. What should we do tonight? After an emotionally wrenching day, maybe we’ll grab grub in Ybor City, try not to frighten our newly-engaged friends, and drown our sorrows at The Blue Shark. Actually, I will drown my sorrows while Husband takes advantage of me.

I’m telling you, folks, date nights work.